


best served cold

by lalaland666 (orphan_account)



Series: whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Eventual Happy Ending, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other, Psychological Torture, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Theology, Torture, Whumptober 2020, he comes back! i promise!!, hell is also terrible, i mean it's not a good time for anyone but Aziraphale gets the short end of the stick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26765203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lalaland666
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley never served their punishments for averting Armageddon. Now, five years later, Heaven and Hell have decided to rectify that.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950676
Comments: 90
Kudos: 69
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. hanging out

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my big piece for Whumptober 2020. It's gonna get really dark, y'all; please, please, Please mind the tags. I'll also have warnings in the individual chapter notes, and summaries for the really bad ones down at the end. But, I promise, there _will_ be a happy ending, if you can last that long! I hope it's worth it in the end!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "Hanging/Waking up restrained". This chapter contains threats of violence and implied torture, and it all goes downhill from here.

Aziraphale came to slowly to an odd ache in his shoulders and a pounding in his skull. 

He lifted his head slowly, blinking the fog out of his eyes and looking around. He was– 

Oh, dear. 

He was in a massive, grey room, an odd sort of space that always seemed to be just a tad bit too big for its intended purpose. His arms were chained up above his head, leaving him dangling from the ceiling with only the balls of his feet touching the floor. 

In front of him was Crowley, his own hands shackled in front of him, with all four Archangels standing to his left, and Beelzebub, Dagon, and Hastur, to his right. 

"Angel–" Crowley said, his voice strained, cut off sharply as Hastur's foot rammed into his stomach. He folded over, gasping for breath. 

"Stop!" Aziraphale cried, jerking uselessly against his own chains. He couldn't perform any miracles, couldn't take his wings out, couldn't do anything. He was helpless. Trapped. He met Gabriel's eyes, desperate, pleading. "Please, stop. We don't– we don't want any trouble, I swear, we won't cause problems. We'll stay out of your way. Please–" 

"Won't cause problems? Well, that's rich, coming from _you_ ," Michael sneered. 

Crowley lifted his head up to glare at her, mouth curled in a snarl. 

"Why are we here?" Aziraphale demanded, before Crowley could start to speak, before they could hurt him any more. "What can you possibly want from us?" 

Gabriel grinned, a broad, cold smile that didn't reach his burning violet eyes. "Your punishments were never served. And, well..." He glanced around, at Uriel's impassive face, Michael's glare, Sandalphon's leer. At the bloodlust in Hastur and Ligur's eyes, at the cold certainty on Beelzebub's face and the grin on Dagon's. His eyes met Aziraphale's once more, and this time, they smiled with the rest of him. "I think it's about time."


	2. big plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "Forced to their knees". This one's where the torture starts– nothing is shown, but it's… not fun.
> 
> Also– I worked out where this particular story is going. Please mind the new tags; we're going to some dark places here. It's gonna be rough, and get a whole lot worse before it gets better. But it will have a happy ending eventually, I promise! We just have to work to get there lol.

Hastur's hand gripped Crowley's right shoulder, and Sandalphon gripped his left, both of them tight enough to hurt. Crowley hardly noticed it. All of his focus was on Aziraphale, trussed up and dangling from the ceiling, and on the way that Gabriel was prowling towards him, an almost hungry glint in his eye. Beelzebub, Dagon, Michael, and Uriel had all vanished, likely taking all of the restraint in the room with them, and Crowley was beginning to panic. 

Gabriel snapped suddenly, and Aziraphale gasped as his meticulously-maintained upper layers all vanished, leaving him bare and vulnerable. 

"Stop!" Crowley cried out, yanking against the hands on his shoulders. He almost managed to dislodge Hastur, but Sandalphon didn't budge, and when Hastur's hand grabbed him again his grip was twice as hard and hot as hellfire. 

Gabriel glanced over his shoulder at Crowley with a smirk on his face. 

"Stop, please," Crowley said, hating the fact that he was reduced to begging but not seeing any other way out. "Please. He– don't hurt him. Please. You can– if you have to hurt one of us, hurt me, just please, _please_ – he doesn't deserve that, you know he doesn't." 

"Crowley, no!" Aziraphale gasped, jerking again against the chains holding him up. "No, please, don't! Let him be, please!" 

"You two are _pathetic_ ," Gabriel said, rolling his eyes. "Don't worry, we've got big plans for both of you." 

"Don't hurt him," Crowley pleaded. "Please, he hasn't done anything to deserve this. It– it was my fault, all of it, I tempted him into it–" 

"Crowley, stop," Aziraphale said. "Let him go. Please, Gabriel. I'll do whatever you ask of me, anything you want, just let him– _oh!_ " 

Gabriel had moved to stand behind Aziraphale, and then grabbed onto– grabbed onto his _wings_ , where they were hidden in the astral plane, and forced them to manifest. He snapped his fingers, and manacles appeared on them, yanking them up and out, pinning Aziraphale in place like a butterfly to a board. Aziraphale let out a noise, a strangled sort of gasp, his wings twitching in their restraints. 

"No," Crowley breathed, horror curling in his gut. 

"You two are the experts, here," Gabriel said. "I'll leave you to it." 

"Gabriel– Gabriel, _please_ –" Aziraphale cried. 

But it was too late. Gabriel was gone. 

Sandalphon cleared his throat. "I believe it's your turn first." 

"Is it? Lucky me," Hastur said, letting go of Crowley's shoulder and grinning down at him before striding over to stand behind Aziraphale, pulling a knout from the ether as he went. 

" _No_ ," Crowley shouted desperately, struggling against Sandalphon's grip. "No, no, no, no! Don't you fucking _dare_ touch him, don't–!" 

He fought, writhed, reached desperately for power that he knew he couldn't access, but it was useless, hopeless. He was pinned down, helpless, forced to watch, as Aziraphale's eyes met his, ocean-blue and swimming with tears. 

"It's all right, my dear," Aziraphale breathed, his voice trembling faintly. "I love you." 

"Angel–" Crowley choked out. 

And then the knout made contact, and Aziraphale _screamed_.

### 

It lasted for _hours_. Aziraphale got lost in it soon enough, in the endless, white-hot agony. Eventually, though, eventually, the blows stopped, and he gripped the chains above his head in a desperate effort to ground himself as his head was jerked up. 

“Done yet, Principality?” Hastur sneered. 

“I… I rather think I am,” Aziraphale said, his breath still coming in ragged gasps despite his best efforts. “I suspect… that you’re not, however.” 

“I could be,” Hastur said. “If you tell us how you survived.” 

“If either of you confess, then all of this will end,” Sandalphon said, his voice just as disturbingly even as always. 

Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes, and saw his own disbelief, his own terror, reflected back at him. 

“You must be utterly mad,” he said. 

“Completely mental,” Crowley added. 

“How did you survive?” Hastur growled, cracking the whip in his hand loudly, and Aziraphale flinched before he could stop himself. 

Crowley let out a low, wounded sound, and Aziraphale redoubled his grip on the chains. He couldn’t let them hurt Crowley. Not ever, not if there was a single thing left that he could do about it. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “our survival was part of the Plan.” 

“The War _was_ the Plan,” Sandalphon droned. 

“I thought we had rather established that the Plan was, well…” 

“Ineffable,” Crowley finished, and the faint glimmer of humour in his eyes as he met Aziraphale’s gaze again gave Aziraphale the strength to straighten up properly, balancing mostly on his feet once more. 

“You little bastards,” Hastur snarled. “This isn’t over, traitors.” 

“We’ll be back,” Sandalphon said, calm as ever. 

And then they both vanished, taking the chains holding Aziraphale up with them. 

He gasped, stumbling to the side, and then Crowley was there, catching him, lowering him slowly to the ground, and Aziraphale bit back a groan, the _pain_ of it all assaulting him anew. 

“I can’t do miracles,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could _feel_ his near-panicked fretting, even if he couldn’t see it from here. “You’re bleeding a lot, Aziraphale, and I can’t–” 

“I won’t discorporate,” Aziraphale said, catching Crowley’s wrist, bringing the demon’s hand to his mouth, and kissing his palm gently “I’m not going anywhere, Crowley.” 

“You’d better not,” Crowley said, letting Aziraphale tug him closer, pull him down until they were laying side by side, Aziraphale’s wing curled protectively around Crowley, despite how very much it hurt to move it into place. 

“Stop moving, you’re gonna hurt yourself worse,” Crowley admonished, and Aziraphale almost laughed. 

“I’m all right,” he said, this time kissing Crowley’s cheek. “I’ll be all right. Besides,” he lifted his cuffed wrist closer to his face, scanning the Enochian symbols there, “I can’t discorporate right now, even if I wanted to, and I’m fairly certain that you can’t, either.” 

“Binding runes?” Crowley asked, scanning his own cuffs. “Ah. Enochian. You’re the expert, angel, any gaps you can see?” 

“These cuffs are older than human magic,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure there is a way to break them. I just… I don’t know it.” He sighed, then winced as the motion stretched the gashes across his back. “I’m so sorry, my love.” 

“Don’t be,” Crowley said immediately, pressing a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head, endlessly warm and gentle as he always was. “If anyone should be apologising–” 

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for this, Crowley,” Aziraphale said sharply, picking his head up to glare at his husband despite the pain it caused. “This wasn’t your fault. You _know_ that. I won’t have you blaming yourself.” 

Crowley grumbled something indistinct, before grunting out, “Fine. Same goes for you, though. This is nobody’s fault but the wankers Up and Downstairs. Yeah?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, settling his head back down on Crowley’s chest. 

They were silent for a long moment, nothing but the sound of their breathing, Aziraphale’s stuttering and pained and Crowley’s slightly too even to be entirely normal. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said eventually, his voice tighter than he’d meant it to be. “I… I love you. More than anything.” 

“I know,” Crowley said, tugging Aziraphale slightly closer. “I love you, too.” Aziraphale gasped sharply as the very tips of Crowley’s fingers brushed one of the gashes, and Crowley flinched beside him. 

“We… we’ll get out of this,” Aziraphale said. “I can work on the cuffs, come up with something. We… we can’t…” 

“I don’t plan on letting them kill you,” Crowley said, kissing Aziraphale’s head again. “Not ever.” 

“Nor do I,” Aziraphale said. “No matter what they do. But… oh, I hope they don’t mean to start on you next…” 

Crowley grimaced. “I suppose we’ll see. But they’ll get bored soon enough, angel, don’t you worry. They’ll forget all about us soon. Neither Hastur nor Beelzebub is patient enough to keep us here for long.” 

Aziraphale hummed softly, hoping against all hope that Crowley was right. 

_I won’t let them hurt him,_ Aziraphale decided. _No matter what happens, I won’t let Crowley be hurt. I_ can’t _let him be hurt._

“Love you,” Crowley said, brushing his fingers through the untouched underside of Aziraphale’s wings. 

Aziraphale shuddered and pressed into the touch, the only thing he could feel beyond the pain. “I love you too, my darling. More than anything.” 

“We’ll work this out,” Crowley said. “You and me together. We’ve been in tighter spots than this. Remember that time in Germany, what was it, 1625?” 

Aziraphale laughed, then winced again as it pulled on all the fresh wounds. “Oh, my dear, if we’re talking about tight spots, then we simply can’t forget that time in the American colonies. 1778.” 

“Okay, look, the fact that they thought I was British was _not_ my fault.” 

“To be fair to them, you are British, or at least as close to it as I am,” Aziraphale said. “And, more importantly, you were– _ah_ – you were wearing a red coat, love.” 

“Nope. Nuh-uh. _You_ cannot give _me_ advice about walking into revolutions wearing wildly inappropriate outfits for the occasion, Mr. ‘If-you-must-know-it-was-the-crêpes’.” 

“You told me you liked that outfit!” 

“I did, just not when it was about to get you beheaded! I much prefer you not dead, angel.” 

“Ah.” The weight of the situation they were in settled upon Aziraphale once more, and he drew his wing in closer, tugging Crowley with it, shielding him as thoroughly as he could. 

_I won’t let them hurt him,_ he thought. _I won’t._

_No matter what._


	3. i've got you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is two days’ worth of angst in one, for the prompts “Please...” and "I've got you". This one's got some pretty graphic descriptions of injuries, so please take care.

Pain. There was nothing but pain. Flaring with every motion, every strike, every breath. Aziraphale was lost in it, only vaguely aware of the words tumbling out of his mouth between the weak cries and gasps– "please, no more, please, stop, have mercy, please, _please_ …" 

Then there was a hand, gripping his hair, yanking his head back, and hot breath on his ear. "Confess. Tell us how you survived the hellfire, and this will all be over." 

Hellfire… the hellfire, and the holy water… the prophecy… 

_Crowley._

Aziraphale opened his eyes, and, yes, there he was, kneeling there with his wrists shackled to the floor, blood dripping sluggishly from the cut on the side of his face, and tears in his beautiful eyes. 

"No," Aziraphale mumbled. "No." 

"No?" the voice asked– _Sandalphon's_ voice asked. The hand in his hair shoved his head forwards, making him rock in the chains, pulling on all the wounds littering Aziraphale’s body, fresh and old, and Aziraphale gasped sharply. "If you don't tell us, it starts all over again." 

Aziraphale took as deep of a breath as he could manage, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't tell. He had to protect Crowley. Had to keep Crowley safe. He couldn't tell this secret, not ever, no matter what. 

The lash landed again, and Aziraphale sobbed. 

###

The chains holding Aziraphale's arms and wings up vanished, and he collapsed with a soft cry as Hastur and Sandalphon vanished in eerie synchronicity. Crowley was at his angel's side in an instant, laying out on his back and pulling Aziraphale on top of himself, trying desperately to find a position that wouldn't hurt the angel– at least, not any worse than he already had been. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale gasped, clinging to his shoulders almost desperately. 

"I'm here," Crowley breathed, clutching the angel back just as tightly, one hand tangling in those golden-white curls, now matted through with blood, as the other skimmed briefly up and down Aziraphale’s arm, careful to skate around the marks there, before tangling their hands together. "I've got you, angel." 

"Your back," Aziraphale said, his voice thin and strained with pain and his eyes wide and worried. 

Crowley blinked. He'd almost forgotten about his own injuries– the cut on his head, and the five lash marks across his back. He’d managed to kick Hastur in the shin before he and Sandalphon had chained him down for the day, and in return they’d whacked him over the head with the handle of the whip before… well. It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t about to discorporate him. Nothing would, not here. There was nothing here that could really hurt him, not even himself. The mostly-healed bite marks on his thumb, where he'd nearly managed to chew it off and slip out of his cuffs before Sandalphon had noticed and miracled his hands and wrists invincible, were proof enough of that. 

"M'fine," he said softly, pulling Aziraphale a little closer, cradling the angel's head against his chest. "Angel, you–" 

"Don't," Aziraphale said, shaking his head slightly. "Please, don't. It's better if… please." 

"Angel," Crowley said again, almost plaintively, lifting his head up to glance over Aziraphale's body. His trousers had been vanished long ago– weeks now, perhaps, or maybe days, or maybe months. It was impossible to tell, trapped here in this _fucking_ void. The only way to measure time was by the comings and goings of Hastur and Sandalphon, and they were anything but consistent. It had been long enough, though. Too long. Infinitely too long. And Aziraphale... 

His back was torn to shreds, ripped apart by the lashes and blades and things Crowley had spent a lot of time and alcohol over the centuries trying to forget the names of. The wounds extended all over his body, around to his front and up and down his arms and legs. There was a sluggishly bleeding gash on one of his cheeks, alongside a days-old burn that didn't seem to be healing quite right. And on his wings… 

All of Aziraphale's gorgeous white feathers were gone, plucked out or torn away over time. The bones of his wings had been broken more than once, both accidentally and on purpose, and the flesh of them was just as torn as that of his back. There was a broken pin feather on the right wing, soaking that whole side of his body– and now Crowley's, too– in blood, and Crowley reached for it, pulling the rest of it out as carefully as he could in a vain attempt to try and help, to ease some of the pain, at least a little bit. Aziraphale grimaced, his wing twitching, but he didn't pull away. 

He should have discorporated a long time ago, with all the blood he'd lost and all the pain he was in, but with the cuffs around his wrists, he couldn't. Neither could Crowley. They were trapped here, locked into their corporations and abandoned in Purgatory, until either Gabriel or Beelzebub decided to let them go. 

Neither of _them_ had come by since the day this all started, and Crowley was beginning to think that they might have been forgotten here. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, a trembling hand landing on Crowley's cheek and one of his shattered wings curling in closer, and Crowley blinked, focusing back in on his husband. He'd picked his head up, and his chin was resting on Crowley's chest so that he could look at the demon properly. 

"Hm?" Crowley breathed, his own hand coming up to cover Aziraphale's as he leaned into the contact. 

"I'm so sorry, my love," Aziraphale said. 

"No," Crowley said sharply, shaking his head. "Don't you dare be sorry. Not for any of this. Oh, angel…" 

"They're using me to hurt you," Aziraphale said, fresh tears in his eyes. "I can't–" 

"That's what you're worried about?" Crowley asked, almost laughing. "Aziraphale…" Crowley had realised that some time ago, when Hastur and Sandalphon had hardly bothered laying a hand on him, no matter how often they dropped in. They didn’t have to. And now that Aziraphale knew, too, now he’d realised enough to feel _guilty_ about it, on top of everything else… 

"I'm always worried about you," Aziraphale said softly, combing a shaking hand through Crowley’s hair. 

"Angel," Crowley groaned, leaning in to kiss him. Aziraphale tasted of blood and sweat and tears, and he kissed Crowley back just as desperately, deep and longing and almost painful in a way that made something in Crowley's chest _ache_ with it. 

Eventually, Crowley pulled back, settling Aziraphale more firmly against him and cradling him close, as though by doing so he could somehow protect him. "Rest, angel. Just for a bit. I've got you, yeah? I'm here." 

"I love you so," Aziraphale said, his eyes drifting closed, his mouth twisting into a grimace once more. "M'sorry…" 

"I love you, too," Crowley said, feeling as though something deep in his chest had cracked in two, the pain of it stabbing through him. "Don't be sorry. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for." 

Aziraphale mumbled something that sounded like a disagreement, and Crowley kissed his temple fiercely, as though by doing so he could push those wretched thoughts out of Aziraphale’s head. He ran a hand through the angel’s hair, as gentle as he could manage with the way his entire body was shaking, and Aziraphale leaned into the touch, his broken wings curling more tightly around them both. 

"Sleep, love," Crowley breathed, wishing desperately that he had the power to make it happen, to ease Aziraphale's pain, even just for a moment. "Sleep. I'll be here. I've got you. I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on the 9th. Thank you for reading!!


	4. for the greater good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “For the greater good”. There’s a fair bit of blood in this one, but it’s honestly mostly dry and not super graphic, I don’t think. We’re getting into the sticky bit soon

Beelzebub paced the immaculate Heavenly meeting hall impatiently, waiting for Gabriel to finish his three-hundred-somethingth watch-through of the latest surveillance footage from Purgatory. 

They'd had the traitors for almost nine months now. Some things had improved; Hastur had stopped discorporating every demon who tried to talk to him, and the occasional footage of the torture had sated some of the unresolved bloodlust (and silenced most of the dangerous questions) left behind by Armageddon and the traitor's sham of a trial. But it had been _nine fucking months_ , and neither of them had broken yet and admitted how they'd survived their executions. 

Beelzebub was frustrated. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it tended to end very badly for whoever was frustrating zir. 

Finally, _finally_ , Gabriel stepped away from the footage, and Beelzebub turned to him, folding zir arms in front of zir chest. 

"They're not breaking," ze said. "You said that the Principality would break." 

"I really thought he would," Gabriel said, frowning. "He's so… _soft_." 

"Not szzzoft enough." 

"Hm." 

Beelzebub buzzed loudly. "What'zzzzz your plan B, wankwings? Because I'm getting very close to saying that we try the stuff again and just see what happens." 

"No, no, we can't do that," Gabriel said, rolling his eyes. "If it didn’t work the first time, it’s unlikely it'll work on the second go, and if they survive it again, it'll just boost whatever morale they've got left." 

"Then you'd better have some fucking ideaszzz." 

"Hm." Gabriel glanced around the room, at the desk in the centre, at the footage playing on loop, at the infernal knife hanging off of Beelzebub's belt, at the windows overlooking the monuments of the Earth, down below. They all should have been burning, destroyed, and so should the pristine walls all around zir, and it was only because of those two idiots on that video there that– 

"I've got something," Gabriel said, and Beelzebub blinked, looking up at him. There was a grin on his face, something dark and sinister and positively demonic. 

"Is it a better idea than what we’ve been doing?" 

That grin of Gabriel's just widened. "What if we upped the ante?" 

Beelzebub frowned. 

"Whatever they did to survive, I doubt that any proper, self-respecting angel would be willing to debase themselves doing it," Gabriel said. "Besides, if everyone in Heaven and Hell was immune, it would be harder to keep control." 

He did have a point there; the threat of a nice swim in some holy water worked wonders on even the cockiest of Dukes and Lords. Beelzebub nodded, slowly. 

"So we don't actually need them to tell us the secret. We just need them gone," Gabriel said. "And hellfire isn't the only way to kill an angel." 

Beelzebub wrinkled zir nose. "What do you–?" 

And then ze realised, and a grin to match Gabriel's spread across zir face. 

### 

Aziraphale and Crowley had been left alone for a long time. Long enough for some of Aziraphale’s strength to come back, long enough that he could sit up on his own, long enough that he could speak without too much issue. He was taking advantage of that fact, retracing old, comfortable arguments with Crowley in a desperate attempt to keep both of their minds off of… well, everything, really. 

“No, no,” Crowley was saying. “I’m telling you, angel, it was Rome. Your bloody oysters, during that whole mess with Caligula.” 

“Well, it depends on how you define it, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale said, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head in consideration. Everything still hurt, and his arms were trembling, and it was only six thousand years’ worth of practice at repression that was keeping the searing agony of his shattered wings from overwhelming him, but he didn’t dare waste this peace, this stolen moment of something approaching happiness, by letting the pain take control. 

“Our first date doesn’t need a _definition_ ,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes, though the motion was rather less enthusiastic than it usually was, its lack made all the more obvious by the absence of Crowley’s sunglasses, by his missing jacket and shirt, long since torn to shreds to make bandages that hadn’t done a thing anyways, by the rust-brown streaks of dried blood on his arms and chest that both of them had long since stopped bothering to wipe away. 

“Of course it does!” Aziraphale said. “Now, if you define it as our first time meeting together without the pretence of work, then it was back– oh, Lord, I don’t even remember.” 

“Sumer,” Crowley said. “Couple hundred years after the Garden, I think? Before the Flood. I was already half drunk when you showed up, and I almost thought you were gonna discorporate me, but instead I got you to come inside and join the party.” 

“Oh, but there were so many other people there, I hardly saw you all night! That doesn’t count,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley snorted. “You and your bloody Victorian sensibilities. I was asleep then, angel, cut me some slack here.” 

“If you insist,” Aziraphale said, shifting his weight onto his left hand so he could use his right to comb through Crowley’s hair. He tugged carefully at the patches of dried blood until they began to flake away, fluttering to the floor to join the rest of it. “How would you define it, then?” 

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, his eyes drifting shut. “I think… we both had to know what was going on, even if neither of us could say it. If we didn’t know… what we meant by it, I don’t think it counts.” 

Aziraphale frowned, thinking, then said softly, “Hamlet, then.” 

Crowley opened his eyes again, frowning. “Hamlet? I was there for all of two minutes, no way that counts.” 

“The second time,” Aziraphale clarified quickly. “After I got back from Edinburgh. You got us actual seats, up in the stands, and then sat through the whole thing with me, even though I know you don’t like the tragedies.” 

“I don’t hate them, either,” Crowley said, closing his eyes again and leaning into the gentle motion of Aziraphale’s hand. “There’s a time and a place for them. It’s just that, most of the time, that time and place is ‘somewhere far away from me’.” 

Aziraphale laughed. 

“Did you really know, then?” Crowley asked. “About how I felt?” 

”I… well. I think… I knew how I felt about you, at that point, but… I didn’t quite let myself hope that… that you could feel anything similar for me until 1941.” 

“‘41?” Crowley asked, opening his eyes. “You mean the Blitz? Why then, of all times?” 

”The books,” Aziraphale said. “We hadn’t spoken for eighty years. When you woke up and didn’t get in contact, I… I admit I rather thought that you hated me, or that at the very least you’d finally given up on me. But then– then you were there, and you saved my books– no one else would have done that. No one else would ever have even noticed. You were the only one who ever– and so I… I hoped.” He sighed, combing his fingers through Crowley’s hair once more. “When did you… realise? About me?” 

“Not sure,” Crowley said. “I had hoped for a while... maybe since Rome? But I don’t think I was sure until 1967.” 

Aziraphale winced slightly at the memory of that night. He’d been so afraid, so sure that he would lose Crowley to this, so sure that he would be the reason that the very best of God’s creatures died forever. He knew, if that had happened... it would have destroyed him. 

If it were to happen, it would destroy him. 

Aziraphale smoothed his thumb along the line of Crowley’s cheekbone, wishing more than anything that he could wipe away all the pain and fear and sorrow etched into that beloved face. “I love you, Crowley, ever so much, and I have for so very, very long. And I’m so terribly sorry that it took me so long to say it.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t do that,” Crowley said, sitting up immediately and pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I love you, too, angel. And I knew. I’ve known. You didn’t have to say it. Even if I hadn’t known, it was more important to me that you were safe. It was worth all of it to keep you safe.” He grimaced, then. “At least, while it lasted.” 

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale murmured, pulling Crowley into a proper embrace. “We’ll find a way out of this. We always have.” 

“Oi, I’m supposed to be doing the comforting here,” Crowley protested, clutching Aziraphale back, and his arms rubbed at the still-raw wounds all over Aziraphale’s body, jostled his aching wings, sent a wave of fresh pain crashing over him, but Aziraphale didn’t care, _couldn’t_ care. 

“And you’ve done so very much of it,” Aziraphale said, drawing back just far enough to cup Crowley’s cheek and press their foreheads together. “We’ll survive this, love. Not even the end of the world could stop us. Remember?” 

Crowley huffed out a small laugh and mumbled, “Fuck, I love you _so much_ ,” before surging forward and kissing Aziraphale, deep and desperate. Aziraphale hummed against his lips, losing himself in the kiss, letting himself forget everything but the slide of Crowley’s lips against his. The pain almost seemed to fade away, and Aziraphale melted into Crowley, pressing closer, kissing him deeper. 

“Oh, _ew_. Really?” 

Crowley whipped around before Aziraphale could do anything, a furious hiss rising from his chest. Aziraphale caught his arm desperately, clinging onto him, half to keep himself upright and half to keep Crowley from doing anything idiotic, as his eyes focused on the two newcomers to the room. 

It was Gabriel and Beelzebub, back at last. Gabriel’s nose was wrinkled in obvious disgust, and Beelzebub looked as bored as ze always did, zir arms folded. 

“What the fuck do you two want?” Crowley snarled, still crouched protectively over Aziraphale. 

Gabriel’s face smoothed out, and he grinned. “We’re here to give you two a choice! That’s your whole thing, isn’t it? Making choices?” 

“I find it very likely that neither of us want anything to do with any choice that you might present to us,” Aziraphale said, hoping that he didn’t sound quite as terrified as he felt. 

Gabriel’s grin broadened. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” 

Beelzebub held zir hand up, and in it was a dagger, glittering in the unending grey-white light of this place. Even now, with his power bound, Aziraphale could feel the pure, unfiltered malice radiating from the thing, and he drew back before he could stop himself, his breath catching in his throat. 

“No,” Crowley breathed. 

“Dagon lent me her knife. I beefed it up a bit, too. One solid slicze should be all it takes to send the Principality packing for good,” Beelzebub said. Ze bent down and slid the knife towards them. Crowley caught it before it could touch Aziraphale, holding it like it could somehow contaminate him just through its proximity. 

“So!” Gabriel said, clapping his hands together. “The way I see it, you’ve got three options here.” 

“Option one, you tell us how you szzzurvived, and how to undo it, and we kill you both now,” Beelzebub said. “Option two, you do nothing, and we pick right back up where we left off.” 

“I don’t recommend that one,” Gabriel said, a mocking frown flitting across his face. “We’re all getting a little frustrated, don’t you think?” 

“Option three,” Beelzebub said, as though ze hadn’t heard him. Zir eyes locked onto Crowley’s, and Aziraphale knew what ze was going to say, half a second before ze did. 

His heart sank, and a leaden, exhausted sort of acceptance spread through his veins. 

“You kill the Princzzzipality,” Beelzebub said. “And we let you go.” 

Crowley was utterly frozen, his arm trembling in Aziraphale’s grip, whether with fury or fear or some combination of the two Aziraphale couldn’t tell. 

Gabriel grinned again, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, his violet eyes eager, almost _hungry_. “Buck up, Aziraphale. This is for the Greater Good.” 

And then Gabriel and Beelzebub were gone, and Aziraphale and Crowley were alone again, Dagon’s dagger between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on the 16th. Thank you so much for reading!!


	5. going, going, gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Shoot the hostage" (it's a bit of a stretch, I know, I'm sorry). This one is… rough. Please, please, _please_ mind the tags– this is the chapter where _all_ of the warnings up there come into play.

_And then Gabriel and Beelzebub were gone, and Aziraphale and Crowley were alone again, Dagon’s dagger between them._

“Ssssshit,” Crowley hissed, “shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_!” He jumped to his feet and started pacing the room, the _stupid bloody knife_ clenched in his fist. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be something he could do. There was no way the knife would cut through celestial steel, no matter how cursed it was, and when Crowley pressed the blade to his still miraculously-invincible arms, it skidded off like steel against granite. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice trembling, and when Crowley turned to look at him, he was standing up, too, his featherless, shattered wings quivering and his entire body swaying dangerously. 

“Fuck,” Crowley gasped, leaping forwards and catching Aziraphale just before he collapsed, clutching him close, very carefully pointing the blade of the stupid fucking knife away from him. He couldn’t risk Aziraphale touching it, not even accidentally. 

“I– I’m all right,” Aziraphale breathed, blinking furiously. “I’m all right, love.” 

“No, you’re not,” Crowley said, looking the angel over. He was shaking, panting, and the little bit of blood that his face had gotten back over the past however long they’d been left alone had all drained away. “You should sit back down, angel, you’re gonna hurt yourself…” 

Aziraphale nearly laughed, still clinging to Crowley, even as his legs seemed to steady somewhat beneath him. “I do believe that ship has already sailed.” 

Crowley shifted his grip so that he was more balancing Aziraphale than holding him up completely, glancing around the room. “What d’you reckon are the chances I can take out Sandalphon with this thing next time he comes back?” 

“No!” Aziraphale gasped, his head whipping up to stare at Crowley, his gaze nearly frantic. “Crowley, _no_ , you can’t, please. I couldn’t bear it if they hurt you, too.” 

“We have to come up with something,” Crowley said, getting a little desperate now himself. “We can’t jusst– they’re tearing you to shreds.” 

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale breathed. “I… you know what we have to do. There’s only one way for you to get out of this, dear.” 

Crowley blinked. “Only one–?” 

And then he realised, and his blood ran cold. “No. No, no, no, _no_. Absssolutely not. We are not– I’m not gonna– _no_!” 

“It’s the only way,” Aziraphale said, and how, _how_ was his voice so calm? How could he possibly be calm about this? 

“No!” Crowley snarled. “Aziraphale, this isn’t– this is– you’d be _dead_. You heard Beelzebub, this won’t just discorporate you, it’ll destroy you completely. You’d be... you’d be gone, forever.” He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut to block the burning tears he could feel building. The hand holding onto Aziraphale tightened, and Crowley tucked his other hand, the one still clutching the stupid bloody knife, behind his back, out of Aziraphale’s reach, so his angel couldn’t pull some stupid, self-sacrificing nonsense. “Angel…” 

“It’s the only way out,” Aziraphale said, his free hand coming up to cup Crowley’s cheek. “If we don’t do this, if I don't do this, then _both_ of us will die, and they’ll likely make us regret it all before we do. But, love, if I do–” 

“I can’t lose you, angel,” Crowley said, opening his eyes again, staring at Aziraphale through the blur of his tears. 

“Crowley…” 

“Promise me you won’t,” Crowley pleaded, still clutching at Aziraphale’s arm. “Promise me, Aziraphale.” Because he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , he remembered all too well those terrible, terrible hours between his running into the burning bookshop and seeing the fragile apparition of Aziraphale in that pub, and going through that again, knowing that it would be _forever_ – 

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said again, his voice breaking slightly, and then he was tugging Crowley down into a kiss. 

Crowley groaned, kissing Aziraphale back, the hand not holding the knife letting go of Aziraphale’s arm in order to tangle in his hair instead. Aziraphale moaned softly, tugging Crowley closer, one hand sliding slowly along his waist, pulling them flush, and Crowley let the knife fall from his hand and wrapped around Aziraphale in turn, clinging to him desperately. 

There was no way for both of them to survive this. There was no telling whether they’d ever be left alone like this again. Crowley needed to touch Aziraphale as much as he could, to kiss him, to show him all of the love that he hadn’t been able to for so very, very long. Aziraphale’s hand was balled into a fist, resting on Crowley’s hip, and he was kissing Crowley almost desperately, like it was his last chance. 

After a short eternity, never long enough, Aziraphale drew back half an inch, far enough for their lips to brush and their panting breaths to mingle as he pressed their foreheads together. 

“Angel…” Crowley said. 

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale breathed. “I’m so sorry.” 

And then his hand vanished off of Crowley's hip, and he let out a gasp, like he'd just been punched, or– 

_No._

Crowley jerked back, grabbing onto Aziraphale, panic flaring in his chest. His hand was curled around the hilt of the knife, and the blade of it… 

The blade of it was buried in his stomach. 

"No," Crowley choked. "No, no, no no nonononono–" 

Aziraphale's hand loosened its grip, and his knees buckled suddenly. Crowley caught him, lowered him to the ground as gently as he could manage before dropping to his knees beside him, panic and terror rising in his chest as he stared at the _stupid fucking knife_ , his hands fluttering uselessly over Aziraphale, desperate pleas still pouring from his mouth. "You can't, Aziraphale, no, nonono, don't– you can't– _why_?" 

"Oh, my love," Aziraphale breathed, and Crowley tore his eyes away from the slowly-bleeding wound in his stomach to stare at his face, instead. 

There was a small trickle of blood dripping from his lips, and his cheeks were pale and hollowed in a way they'd never been on Earth. His curls were matted with blood, the white of them stained red, but his eyes were the same as they'd always been, that bright and shining and ever-shifting blue that Crowley had fallen in love with, as he'd fallen in love with all of Aziraphale. 

"I'll fix this," Crowley said desperately, because the other choice was unthinkable. He swept sweat-stained curls back from Aziraphale's forehead, cupped Aziraphale's cheek, wiped away the blood on his lips. "You'll be okay, angel, just hang on for me, okay? I'll– I'll come up with something, I'll–" 

"Crowley, it's all right," Aziraphale said, his hand coming up to hold Crowley's as he pressed his cheek into Crowley's palm. "It's all right, love. You're going to have to–" he coughed, then, a weak, pained sort of thing, and more blood bubbled up between his lips, even as he kept speaking through it– "to let me go." 

"No," Crowley said immediately, shaking his head desperately, bending down to kiss Aziraphale's forehead. He still had those fucking cuffs on. He couldn't do anything. 

"No," he said again, as much to himself this time as Aziraphale. "No, angel, you'll be okay. I'll figure this out, okay? Just– just hold on for me, yeah? Hang on a little longer. I'll come up with something. You can't leave me, angel. You _can't_ leave." 

"Oh, Crowley, my dearest, my love," Aziraphale said, tilting his head slightly to kiss Crowley's hand where it was still clutching his face, leaving a faint, bloody print of his lips behind. "You have to promise me you'll try to be happy. You'll have to be happy for both of us, darling." 

"We'll be happy together," Crowley said, Crowley _begged_. "You're not going anywhere, angel. Stay with me. _Please_ , angel, stay with me." 

"I love you ever so much, Crowley," Aziraphale said softly. His grip on Crowley's hand was growing weaker, and Crowley cupped his face desperately in both hands, smoothing his hair back, clutching him close, desperate to save him one last time. 

"I love you, too," Crowley said, his voice breaking on a sob. "I love you, angel, I love you so much, more than I could ever, ever say. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You made it all worth it, all of it, the War and the Fall and Heaven and Hell and everything the humans have done. You saved me from being like the rest of them, angel, you were kind to me when I thought that kindness was gone forever, you showed me how to love when I was so sure that love was a lie, and I love you, I _love_ you, _I love you_. You have to stay with me. I need you, Aziraphale, you can't leave me. You have to stay." 

"You–" Aziraphale coughed again, more blood spilling out over his lips, his voice growing fainter and fainter by the second. "You have to– you have to be happy, love. You'll be all right, I know you will, you're so– so very strong, stronger than I've ever– ever been. You have– have to be happy. Please, darling, be happy for me." 

"I'll be happy _with_ you," Crowley said, his vision blurred with tears. He bent forwards over Aziraphale, pressing their foreheads together almost hard enough to hurt, as though by doing so he could keep Aziraphale here through sheer force of will alone. "You're gonna come with me, okay? We'll get out of here together. We'll be happy together, like we always wanted, yeah? Stay with me, Aziraphale. You can't leave. You can't…" 

"I love you," Aziraphale said again, his hand going limp. He sighed out a gentle breath, the warmth of it ghosting across Crowley's lips, and then fell still. 

Deathly still. 

"No," Crowley said, picking his head up, searching Aziraphale's face desperately for anything, any sign of life, any hint that he wasn't gone yet, that there was still something that Crowley could do. "No, no, no, angel, come back. You have to come back. You've always come back, you’ve always come back to me, you can’t stop now. One more time, angel, please, come back to me one more time, don't leave me here, angel, Aziraphale, _please_ …" 

But Aziraphale didn't react. His eyes, those ever-shifting, enigmatic eyes, always crinkling in a smile or a frown or narrowing in concentration, always so active, so present, shining and brilliant, were glassy, the blue of them faded to a dull sort of grey. 

"No," Crowley said again, clutching Aziraphale– Aziraphale's _body_ – to his chest, the tears in his eyes spilling over and the sobs in his chest tearing through him almost violently. "No, no, no, no, no no nonononono _no_ , Aziraphale, _please_. Come back. Please come back…" 

The cuffs on both of their wrists fell away, and Crowley gasped as his power slammed back into him. He desperately wrangled what he could of his more occult senses, focusing them in on the body in his arms, desperate, frantic, it couldn't– Aziraphale couldn't be– 

But there was nothing there. No sign of Aziraphale's brilliant light, no trace of his essence, no hint that this body had ever been inhabited by the love of Crowley's life. The void around Crowley was empty, utterly, entirely, except for Crowley himself and the corpse in his arms. It was too late. 

Aziraphale was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this will have a happy ending!!! Just… not yet. The next update will be on the 19th.


	6. broken heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “Grief”, though all four of the prompts for today apply pretty well. Warnings for alcohol abuse, some brief suicidal thoughts, and discussions of things that have happened in past chapters.

Crowley could hear voices, above and behind him. Someone was talking about him, talking _to_ him, but he couldn’t have made out the words even if he’d wanted to. He was frozen, utterly frozen, staring down at Aziraphale– at Aziraphale’s _body_ – in his arms. 

“Didn’t think he had it in him,” Gabriel said, sounding almost impressed, and Crowley set Aziraphale’s body down as gently as he could, closing his eyes with hands that had gone half-clawed already, before he turned to face the intruders, a growl rising in his throat. Gabriel, Beelzebub, Hastur, and Sandalphon stood there, looking down at Crowley with varying degrees of contempt on their faces. 

_These bastards killed my angel._ It was their fault, _their fault_ that he was– that he was _gone_ – 

Just as Crowley rose to his feet, his claws and fangs elongating and a feral snarl tearing from his throat, Beelzebub snapped zir fingers, and Purgatory vanished. 

Crowley stumbled to the side as he was teleported, landing hard in– in the flat above the bookshop, in their bedroom, where Heaven and Hell had come for them. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, the air was heavy with it (how long had they been gone?), but underneath was the scent of old books and turned earth, Earl Grey and campfires, the smell of _them_ , and now there was a new scent in the air– blood, _Aziraphale’s_ blood, Crowley was covered in it still. The faint imprint of Aziraphale’s last kiss very nearly burned on his palm. He stumbled towards the bed– the covers were still rucked up, Crowley had been asleep when they came, and Aziraphale had been sitting up beside him reading, as had become their routine since the end of the world, and they’d managed to overpower Aziraphale and knock him out before Crowley could get himself untangled from the sheets and then they’d dragged them both away… 

There was a book on the floor, on Aziraphale’s side of the bed. The pages were bent, and Crowley grimaced, dropping down to his knees to pick it up. He ought to fix that, Aziraphale would be so upset– 

Crowley's thoughts slammed into a brick wall. He reached for the book, his hands trembling, and scooped it up. It was a copy of the First Folio– a later edition, of course, Aziraphale didn’t read the first editions in bed if he could help it. Crowley picked it up carefully, ran shaking fingers down the cover, wiping it clean of dust and dirt, and then flipped it over. 

Aziraphale had been reading _Hamlet_. 

Crowley stared down at the creased pages, tears blurring his vision once more. Memories flashed through his mind, a gently hopeful look, an indulgent miracle, a beaming smile, the pattern repeated time and time again, and in 1601 Aziraphale had been wearing that blue and gold doublet with that ruffle collar around his neck and he’d been so _happy_ when they’d gone together, both times, beaming alternately at the crowd and the stage and Crowley, and Crowley had thought at the time that if he stared too long into that smile he was likely to go blind from the sheer brilliance of it. 

Aziraphale would never smile at Crowley like that again. Crowley would never be able to hear his laugh, or see his eyes shine, or watch him light up when he noticed Crowley’s presence, or surprise him with gifts, or dine at the Ritz, or kiss him, and they had only just started on that one– 

The Folio fell through nerveless fingers to land on the carpet once more as Crowley curled in on himself, a desperate, keening sound building up inside his chest. Aziraphale was gone. Aziraphale was dead, _forever_. All those rescues, all those favours, all those thousands of years dancing around each other, and when it truly mattered, Crowley had been helpless to do anything but watch, and his angel had paid the ultimate price. 

Something inside of Crowley broke, and he _screamed_ , the waves of rage and grief pounding through him in a surge of demonic energy strong enough to short out every power line in the greater London area. Overhead, the sky darkened, clouds rolling in and thunder booming, the rain coming down in sheets, sending the humans fleeing for shelter. 

Crowley didn’t notice. He just grabbed onto the Folio again and pulled it close, the pages smoothing themselves out as he clutched the book to his chest and sobbed. 

### 

Crowley had been drunk for three days straight. It was, frankly, an improvement over the two days before that, which he’d spent lying on the floor of his and Aziraphale’s bedroom, rocking slowly side to side, clutching at the Folio and crying on and off the entire time. Eventually, the blood all over him had begun to flake off onto the carpet, and so Crowley had dragged himself into the shower and sat there for nearly six hours, watching Aziraphale’s blood run down the drain, alternating between being utterly numb and feeling as though his chest was about to implode. 

That was when the drinking had started, and Crowley had no plans to stop any time soon. When he was drunk, he didn’t have to think about it. Didn’t have to think about those awful months in that void, didn’t have to think about the look in Gabriel’s eyes as Beelzebub slid them the knife, didn’t have to think about the blood that had stained Aziraphale’s lips as he told Crowley that he loved him one last time– 

_Fuck._ Crowley shook his head violently and then launched himself upright, swaying on his feet. He needed another drink. He clearly wasn’t drunk enough, if he was remembering. The only alcohol left in the shop was the last of the Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the ones that Aziraphale had been saving for a special occasion, and Crowley couldn’t just drink that. He had to– he’d just go out, find a pub or a liquor store or something, and drown himself in whatever shitty booze he could get his hands on. 

_Might stop by a church on the way,_ a voice in his head whispered, one he’d heard more than once over the past five days. _See if they’ve still got big ol’ fonts of holy water lying about._

Crowley shook his head again, conjuring something close enough to his usual pair of sunglasses and jamming them on his face. He needed a drink. Or several. The more the better. Some absolutely shite whiskey, maybe even some spirits– this was a straight-spirits sort of situation, wasn’t it? Watching the love of your life die in your arms? He could be forgiven drinking vodka out of the bottle, just this once. At this point, Crowley would drink paint thinner if would just shut his fucking brain up. He just needed to find something. Something cheap and high in alcohol content. 

And maybe he would just check to see what churches there were in the area, while he was out. 

Crowley opened the door to the bookshop for the first time since he’d got back, squinting even in the typically cloudy light of the London afternoon. There was so much– so much _noise_ out here, so many people, so much motion and colour and activity after so long in near-silence ( _broken by the screams, and the sobs, and the crack of the lash_ –), and Crowley braced himself against the doorframe, sucking in a deep breath in a desperate attempt to ground himself. The city hadn’t changed, not a whit, not in all the time they’d been gone, and– 

“Coo-ee, Mr. Crowley! Oh, goodness, it’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?” 

Crowley blinked rapidly at the sound of his name, his eyes darting around until they landed on a bright smear of jewel tones, making her way across the street towards him. 

“Madame Tracy?” he asked, utterly dumbfounded. “What– how– why're you here?” 

“Pepper's birthday was last week, and it's very unlike you and Mr. Aziraphale to have forgotten, and neither of you were answering your telephones. We were all getting terribly worried, the children and Anathema and Newt and Mr. S and I, and so I decided to come down to see how you two were doing.” She clambered up the steps towards him, peering up into his face. “Oh, dear me, you’re looking rather peaky. What’s happened? Where’s Mr. Aziraphale?” 

And at that, Crowley froze. 

_Oh, God. They don’t know. None of the humans know yet. Someone’s going to have to tell them._

I’m _going to have to tell them._

Crowley could feel himself shaking, his vision blurring again, as yet more _fucking_ tears built up. He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes from underneath his glasses, as though that might keep the tears from spilling. 

“Mr. Crowley,” Tracy said, her voice soft and almost gentle. “Where’s Mr. Aziraphale?” 

“He’s not here,” Crowley said, and there was a stupid useless lump in his stupid useless throat and it was making his voice sound all choked and miserable and, alright, that was fair, he _was_ miserable, completely and utterly, and was it so wrong of him to want to be alone in it?

"Oh, dear, have you two had a row?" Tracy asked, her voice saccharine-sweet. "You're so good together, you really ought to try and talk to him–" 

"Stop it!" Crowley hissed, whipping his glasses off to glare at her. "He's not here, Tracy. He's not– he's not coming back. He's gone. He's _gone_." 

Madame Tracy's jaw dropped, her eyes going wide. "He isn't– no. He can't– I thought you two couldn't–" 

"We can," Crowley said, squeezing his eyes shut again, wiping away the stupid fucking tears that slipped out. "He… he's gone. Forever. He's… he's dead." 

It was the first time he had said it out loud. The first time he’d let himself think it, really, for more than a couple seconds at a time. 

Aziraphale was dead. 

"Oh, you poor dear," Tracy murmured, and then she was– she was _hugging_ him, and her body was tiny and frail and human but her arms were surprisingly strong and _fuck_ , Crowley was crying properly now, tears dripping onto Tracy's luridly checkered coat, and she cooed soothing nonsense into his ear, rubbing his back gently, before carefully pulling away and ushering him back inside the shop. 

“Come on now, there’s a love," she said, horribly gentle, treating him like he was– like he was fragile, like he was _human_. "Why don’t I make you a nice cup of tea? That’ll help you some.” 

“Don’t– you don’t have to–” Crowley managed to say, even as he fell back onto the sofa in the back room, waving his hand to banish the various bottles that had accumulated. 

“Nonsense. You just sit tight for me, dearie, I'll be right back,” Tracy said, bustling about the little kitchenette as though she’d been there a hundred times before. 

Crowley didn’t have the energy to argue with her. He just slumped back, scooping the Folio back up from where he’d put it down and hugging it close, trying desperately to get himself back under control. After a moment, Tracy emerged once more, and he opened his eyes, caught sight of the mug in her hands, and promptly burst into tears once more. 

It was Aziraphale's ridiculous little angel mug– or, one of them, he had about half a dozen, because every time Crowley had come across one in a shop he'd bought it for the angel. They were all slightly different in some way or another, and this one was the first one Crowley had bought him, the one he used most often. 

"Oh, you poor thing," Tracy said, setting the mug down on the end-table closest to Crowley before settling herself into the armchair opposite him– not Aziraphale's armchair, thank fuck, Crowley didn't think he could handle someone else sitting in that particular chair yet. 

"Don't– don't _patronise_ me," Crowley managed to snarl. "I'm a bloody _demon_ , you don't have to– to make me tea and coddle me and– you shouldn't even be here. You should head back to Tadfield. Tell the rest of them that… tell them what happened." 

"You need someone here with you right now," Tracy said. "And, since I'm already here, I think that I'll do well enough for the moment." 

Crowley sighed, letting her have this. He'd find some way to chase her off soon enough, he was sure. In the meantime… 

In the meantime, Aziraphale's mug was still steaming. Crowley picked it up, then frowned down at the tea in it– it should be cocoa. It was always cocoa, for Aziraphale, at least in this mug– he had all sorts of dainty little china that he preferred to use for tea. Crowley blew on the tea, and it shifted, turning into the almost painfully rich nonsense that Aziraphale had liked best, and Crowley clutched the mug closer, squeezing his eyes shut. 

"How… how long…?" Tracy asked softly. "We haven't seen either of you since October. Has it been…?" 

Crowley shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "'Bout five days, now. More or less. Been drunk for most of it, so m'not sure." 

"Now, that can't be healthy for you," Tracy tutted softly. "Even if you are… less likely to… suffer ill effects." 

"M'not gonna discorporate, don't worry," Crowley muttered. "Even if I did, I reckon they'd just stuff me in the first body they had to get rid of me again. That was the whole point." Aziraphale would die, and Crowley would go free. Aziraphale had decided that it would be worth it. 

Crowley wasn't nearly so sure. 

Tracy frowned, looking at him oddly. "The whole point?" 

Crowley shook his head, pressing both the cocoa and the First Folio to his chest. He couldn't– he _couldn't_. Even if he could've talked about it, he couldn't tell Tracy. She was just a human, and no one– no one deserved to have to listen to all that. 

"Mr. Crowley," Tracy said, her voice far quieter than it had been. "How did Mr. Aziraphale die?" 

"Don't," Crowley said, shaking his head yet again. "You don't want me to– don't. You should go, human. You should– just go." 

Madame Tracy tutted softly. "Now, I can't force you to talk about it, and I wouldn't want to anyways, but it isn’t good for you to keep it all bottled up inside.” 

“I’m telling you, you _don’t want to know_ ,” Crowley snapped. He took a sip of the cocoa, out of instinct more than anything else. It was warm and sweet and significantly more pleasant than the aftertaste of whatever mixture of alcohols he’d been drinking over the past few days, so he took another sip, still cradling the mug possessively. 

Madame Tracy hummed for a moment, then said, “Tell me about him, then.” 

Crowley blinked. “Pardon?” 

“Tell me about Mr. Aziraphale,” she said. “He was terribly fond of you, you know. I can remember that much, from when he possessed me. He lit up like a Christmas tree when you showed up.” 

Crowley huffed out a quiet breath that might have, under different circumstances, been a laugh. “That, uh… yeah. He’d… he’d do that, sometimes.” Dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of meetings over the years, Crowley watched that brilliant, beaming grin spread over Aziraphale’s face at his approach. When had that started? When had Aziraphale started being eager to see him, rather than nervous? When had his own heart begun skipping a beat at the sight? 

Crowley sighed, slumping back into the sofa. “You know, I… I honestly don’t know when I fell in love with him. You’d think– I mean, you’d think it would be the sort of thing you’d remember, but… it might’ve been in Rome, back in 41, when he came up to me out of nowhere and asked me to go get oysters with him– I was rude as anything to him, but he refused to be put off. Managed to cheer me up, too. Or maybe it was in Athens, watching him argue with every philosopher he came across, even though he still wrote down every word they said. Or in– it was a tiny village, didn’t even have a name, I don’t think, I didn’t really hang out for long. 1020 AD. He’d finally agreed to work with me. Or… or maybe I’m wrong about all of it, and I was doomed from the very beginning. I was an arse to him, then. Fresh out of Hell, had just gotten Her favourite creations kicked out of Paradise, confident as anything and sarcastic to boot. Any normal angel would’ve smote me on sight. But… but not Aziraphale. He talked to me, he told me that he’d given his sword away– I made fun of him, but he didn’t even notice. Thought I was being _kind_. God, I wish I had been. And then… first rain came rolling in, and he held out his wing over my head. He ended up soaked through, but he kept me dry. Never… never really stopped, either.” 

The tears were back, and Crowley set the Folio in his lap in order to wipe uselessly at them yet again. “He got demoted for it. For what I did, not the sword, I’m not sure they ever even knew about that. Probably wouldn’t still be– fuck, wouldn’t have lived as long as he did if they had done. But they knew about my temptation, in the Garden, and then punished him for it. Two whole spheres down, Cherub to Principality. Even then… and, do you know, he still thinks– thought– that I did the right thing, in the end.” 

“He was always terribly sweet,” Tracy said softly, and Crowley jumped. He’d almost forgotten that she was there. 

“Y-yeah,” he said. “Yeah, he… yeah. He’s– he was– he was kind. Actually kind, and gentle and soft, and he worked hard at it, too. Wrestled his goodness free of Heaven and made it _real_ , made it mean something. I took the easy way out, honestly. One push, nasty Fall, boiling pool of sulphur, and that’s it. He had to make his own way out. And he did it, too, the brilliant bastard.” 

He had made it out, in the end, after six thousand years of abuse, and then he’d had five years of freedom before… 

“And now he’s gone,” Crowley breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, clutching the rapidly-cooling mug of cocoa in a vice grip, “he made it out and we were free and he’d been _happy_ and now he’s _gone_ and it’s all _my fault_ –” 

“Oh, Mr. Crowley, no–” Tracy began, leaning forwards. 

“It _is_!” Crowley said, and he’d meant for it to come out sharp and biting but his voice broke on a sob instead, and he sucked in a deep, shaky breath. “It’s… he died trying to protect me. Trying to keep me safe. He was– they’d trapped us both, they were _torturing_ him, and then they– they threatened us, said they’d find a way to kill us both soon enough, but if he… they gave us a knife, cursed as anything, strong enough to properly… and they said that if I killed Aziraphale, I could go free. I wasn’t– I wouldn’t, I would never, I– and then he stabbed himself with it. Killed himself, so that I could survive.” His hands were trembling violently, only a miracle keeping the cocoa from spilling everywhere. “I wish it had been me. It shouldn’t have been him, it should never have been him, it should have been _me_ –” 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Madame Tracy breathed, and then she was pulling the mug out of his hands and wrapping her arms around him, hugging him, squeezing him tightly, and Crowley muffled a stupid, worthless, pathetic sob in her coat (it was the same coat that she and Aziraphale had worn the day the world ended, and the fact only made him sob harder) as she patted his hair soothingly, cooing comforting nonsense at him. “There, there, love. Let it all out, now.” 

“How do you lot do it?” Crowley asked, _begged_. “How do you– how do you handle it? Humans are losing each other all the time, how do you all– how do you _survive_ it?” 

“Well, I’m not sure there’s ever been a case quite like yours,” Tracy said, still patting his hair. She’d also started swaying side to side ever so slightly, and Crowley was ashamed to admit that it helped, a little. “You two have only had each other for thousands of years, now. But for us… it takes time. It feels like the end of the world, at first– or, some version of it, at least– and then it feels like a weight around your neck, and then the weight gets lighter and lighter, or maybe you just get better at carrying it. There isn’t really a cheat sheet for this sort of thing, dearie. It just… takes time.” 

_Time._ Well, that was one thing Crowley would never run out of. He’d thought– they both had thought– that there would be plenty of time to go around, after everything. They had thought that they were free. 

“There is something that helps, though,” Tracy said. 

Crowley sighed. “At this point, I’ll try anything.” 

“Spend some time with the friends you do have,” Tracy said. “Everyone in Tadfield has been missing you terribly.” 

Crowley froze. Seeing them all, having to explain why– why Aziraphale wasn’t there, having to listen to all their condolences– 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, pulling himself back from Tracy. “I can’t– no. Not… I will, I will come back, and please– please tell Pepper that I'm sorry we missed her birthday, but I can't– not yet.” 

“All right,” Tracy said. “Would you like me to tell them the rest, as well?” 

Crowley wiped at his eyes yet again. Crying was a stupid thing, really, whoever had come up with that clearly hadn’t thought it through. “Not… not yet. M'not ready to– not yet. Please. I don't want them all coming down here to– no.” 

“All right,” Tracy said softly. “It isn't good to keep it to yourself for too long, but I understand you need a couple of days. In the meantime, you should have a bit of a lie-down. You look exhausted, dearie.” 

Crowley snorted. “Thanks.” 

“Oh, you know what I meant,” Tracy said. “Have a rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.” And then she turned and headed off, back out into the main room of the shop. 

Crowley watched her go. She was right, he was exhausted. Completely and utterly. He hadn’t slept in– fuck, it was the middle of June, if he'd missed Pepper's birthday. Nine months. Crowley felt ready to collapse, and the sofa was just as comfortable as it had always been, and it still smelled like Aziraphale, too, books and tea and the faint sunshine scent that had always followed him around. Crowley buried his face in the cushions, letting his eyes fall shut. Like this, just for a moment, he could pretend. He could imagine that it was Aziraphale moving about in the front room, that any minute now he’d come by and ask Crowley a question or offer him a cup of coffee (Aziraphale didn’t drink coffee, never had, but the stuff he made was the best Crowley had ever had, and he’d been blown away to learn that the angel had learned it for him), and then they’d go out to dinner, and then collapse back into their bed, safe and happy and _together_ , forever. 

It was only moments before Crowley was asleep, and, thank Someone for small mercies, he didn't dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on the 20th


	7. lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “Lost”. Warning for discussions of previous events, and some very very brief descriptions of injuries.

Aziraphale opened his eyes. 

_Huh_ , he thought faintly, looking around. _I didn’t think I’d be able to do that any longer._

To be entirely honest, it hadn’t made much difference. He could see himself, his– his essence, he supposed, or what was left of it– but all around him was darkness, a complete and utter emptiness that made him almost sick to look at. There was no one and nothing around– he was entirely cut off. Separated from all of Heaven and Earth. 

Separated from Crowley. 

_Well, you knew that would happen,_ he reminded himself. _That was the choice you made. Oh, I hope he’s all right…_

It wasn’t as though there was much Aziraphale could do to check, not from here. He supposed he would just have to– 

“I wasn’t expecting you for a few months longer, yet.” 

Aziraphale started at the sound of the rasping voice, using his wings to turn himself around. Behind him stood– hovered? floated? He wasn’t entirely clear on the mechanism– a tall, skeletal figure swathed in black robes. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said faintly. “Death. I, ah. I suppose that means it’s over for me, doesn’t it?” 

“You are not quite dead yet,” Death said. “If you were, we would not be having this conversation.” 

“O-oh,” Aziraphale said, blinking and looking around at the void once more. “Where– where am I, then?” 

“In between,” said Death. He sounded amused. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I probably oughtn’t be surprised I can't even die properly without getting lost halfway there. I suppose you’re here to collect me, then?” 

“You are not lost. I wanted to talk to you,” Death said. 

Aziraphale blinked again, his brow furrowing. “Talk to–? What– _why_?” 

“You’ve become something of a celebrity over the years,” Death said. 

“Oh, really, now. The only remotely remarkable things I’ve ever done were to give away my sword and give a young boy a bit of a pep talk. That should hardly qualify me for celebrity status.” 

“You fell in love with a demon, as well.” 

“That cannot possibly be remarkable to anyone who has spent enough time with Crowley.” He froze, then, his eyes meeting Death’s– or, at least, the space where Death’s eyes ought to have been. “Is he–? Please tell me they haven’t– is he still alive?” 

“He is,” Death said. “Your sacrifice was a success.” 

If Aziraphale had had a body, he might have collapsed in relief. “Oh, thank goodness.” 

Death let out an odd, rattling sort of hum. Aziraphale hadn’t the faintest idea what he was thinking. 

“Why did you do it?" Death asked. 

Aziraphale blinked. "I– I love him. You said so yourself.” 

"If you had not sacrificed yourself, you could have spent another six months with him before you were both killed." 

"But I didn't want Crowley to die at all," Aziraphale said. "That was the very last thing I wanted!" 

"Everything dies eventually," Death said. "You have never understood that." 

"I do understand," Aziraphale said. "Believe me, I understand it quite well. But… but that doesn't mean that we oughtn't give everyone a chance to live before it happens. And Crowley… he's… he's more to me than anything else in the universe. More than Heaven and Earth and everything in them, more than…" He paused, just for a moment. He was dead already, or very nearly so. What could it hurt? "More than God. I had a chance to save him, to protect him from being extinguished forever– why would I _not_ take it?" 

"Is his life really worth more than more time together?" 

"Yes!" Aziraphale said. "Yes, it is. It always has been. If I'd valued our _time together_ , as you say, more than I valued Crowley's continued existence, with or without me in it, I would have thrown caution to the wind millennia ago, and we would both have very likely been killed long before Armageddon began. I love Crowley, and so, more than _anything_ , I want him to be safe and happy. That's all I've ever wanted.” 

“Hm.” How desperately Aziraphale wished that Death's skeletal face would show any hint of what he thought. “It was all for love, then?” 

“All of it,” Aziraphale said. “Every good thing I have ever done, I did for love.” 

“Including what you did five years ago?” 

“That more than anything, perhaps. I'm glad to have stopped the War. Nothing good whatsoever could possibly have come of it." 

“You didn't stop the War. The Antichrist did.” 

"Adam,” Aziraphale corrected. “Adam Young. I rather thought he had made that plain, that day. It really is the most basic courtesy to call him by his name.” 

Death stared at him with those utterly inscrutable eyes– or, er, eye-sockets, Aziraphale supposed. “You love like the humans do.” 

“I suppose I must.” Aziraphale wished that his essence was wearing a waistcoat, instead of a flowing white robe– he tugged on his sleeves, but it wasn’t quite the same. “I do believe they’ve had the right of it from the start, at least in some ways. When one's time is limited, every little thing one does matters so much more. That’s something that the rest of us will never truly understand, I think.” 

“Your time was limited, in the end. Do you still not understand?” 

“I… don’t know.” Aziraphale sighed. “I wasn't expecting it. I didn't know from the very beginning that there would be an end. That… I suppose that it's that, that knowledge, that understanding, which makes all the difference.” 

“Does it bother you, to not understand?” 

Aziraphale frowned. "Why should it? It's… terribly human, in the end. Not knowing. I can hardly be upset about that." 

Death stared at him for a moment longer. “You are a very strange angel.” 

Aziraphale almost laughed. “So I’ve heard.” 

Death tilted his head, and Aziraphale thought that, had he been capable of it, he might have smiled, then. “I must go, Principality. I have other work to attend to.” 

Aziraphale took a deep, and entirely unnecessary, breath. “I suppose that’s it, then. For me.” He would be gone, in moments. Extinguished from the universe. 

He would never see Crowley again… 

Death was turning to go, and before Aziraphale could think better of it, he called, “W-wait, just– please, just a moment–” 

“I cannot give you more time,” Death said. “You made your choice.” 

“I'm not asking for more time,” Aziraphale said. “I don't regret what I did. But… well, I know you must be terribly busy, but is there… is there any way you could you take a message, for me? To Crowley?” 

Death stopped, turning partway back towards Aziraphale. “What do you wish to say?” 

Apparently, this halfway-form was capable of crying, if the burning in Aziraphale’s eyes was anything to go by. “Just that… that I love him, so very, very much. I always have, from the very beginning, though it took me a terribly long time to realise it. And that… I wish, so very much, that we could have had more time together, but what time we did have was… was perfect. It was everything. And… that I’m sorry that it had to end as it did, but... I love him, I always have and always will, and I'm ever so grateful to have had the chance to do so.” 

Death stared at Aziraphale for another long, long moment. 

Then he looked up, towards something above Aziraphale’s head. “I think there’s someone else who wishes to speak to you before you go. Goodbye, Principality.” 

And then Death was gone. 

Aziraphale could feel… he could feel a warmth, from somewhere up above him. A light, piercing through the darkness. 

He knew who had come a moment before She spoke, in a voice he had last heard more than six thousand years ago. 

“Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate.” 

Aziraphale swallowed, squared his shoulders, and then looked to the heavens. “Hello, Lord.” 

### 

Crowley was about a bottle and a half deep, which was technically about a bottle more than Madame Tracy had recommended he limit himself to, but she was out doing the shopping or something, and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. 

He was sitting on the sofa in the back room, like he had so, so many times before, when he felt it. A heat that he knew would be scalding if he got too close, a light that would have more than blinded any human who dared to look at it. 

Crowley, whose eyes had been built, so long ago, to withstand the stars, looked directly into the face of God and said, “You miserable Bitch.” 

God laughed. “You’ve only gotten more acerbic with time, Cori–” 

“ _No_ ,” Crowley snarled, lurching forwards. “You _do not_ get to call me that. You stole that name from me when You threw me out, You don't get to use it now. My name is _Crowley_.” 

She still sounded unbearably amused. “You don’t seem worried about the consequences of talking back to Me.” 

Crowley slumped back, gesturing with the hand still holding the bottle of– he thought it might have been brandy. He wasn’t sure. “What more could You _possibly_ take from me, at this point?” 

“You miss him.” 

“No fucking shit.” Crowley closed his eyes, tilting his head back. “If You’re gonna kill me, can You just get it over with? I hate having to be patient.” 

“I know,” She said. “You’ve done very well at it, despite that.” 

“Fat lot of good it did, in the end.” He sighed heavily. “Just… why? Why did it have to end like that? Why did he have to– after everything he'd been through, everything _you_ and your bloody Archangels put him through, why couldn't You just let him _live_? He was the best bloody thing You'd ever made, the only decent angel You had left, and they just– Why did You let that happen? Why did _any_ of it happen? Not just… not just what Aziraphale… but, all of it. The War– the first one, I mean– and the Fall, and– all of it. Everything. I just don’t… _why_?” 

God laughed again. “I should have known you’d have questions for Me.” 

“And I should’ve known You’d refuse to answer them,” Crowley muttered. 

“Actually, I wanted to ask _you_ something.” 

Crowley sat up slowly. “Me? Why? What can I possibly tell You?” 

If God had had a face, She would have smiled. 

### 

“Aziraphale,” God said again, Her voice clear and firm. “Where is the flaming sword I gave to you?” 

Aziraphale, quite literally, had nothing left to lose. “I gave it away, Lord. I gave it to Adam and Eve when they left the Garden, in order to protect them.” 

“To protect them?” God asked. 

Aziraphale nodded. “I– I tried to guard them. That was– that was what I was told to do. To watch over and protect everything in Eden.” 

“You took that very literally.” 

Aziraphale blinked. “What–?” 

“You haven’t just protected the humans, Aziraphale. You protected Crowley, too.” 

“I have,” Aziraphale said. “Or– at least, I tried to. I was never… never a terribly competent guardian, I’m afraid. But… but I don’t regret doing so, however little it may have mattered in the end.” 

“You love him very much.” 

“I do. I love him– I love him more than anything.” 

“Enough to die for him.” 

“A thousand times over, if it would keep him safe.” 

“Hm.” Aziraphale couldn’t see Her face, not really– technically speaking, She didn’t actually have a face in the most literal sense– but he could still feel Her eyes upon him. "You really mean that, don't you?" 

### 

“It’s a simple enough question, don’t worry,” God said. “If it would bring Aziraphale back, would you–?” 

“Yes,” Crowley said. 

She paused. “I hadn’t finished.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley said. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is, if it’ll bring him back, I’ll do it.” 

“Even if you were to be extinguished in the process? Even if it mean that he had to feel what you have felt, over the past few days?” 

“If he was alive at the end of it? If it meant that he was safe, that he had a shot at happiness? Yes. Absolutely. No question.” He leaned forward. “I meant what I said. Anything at all. If it’ll bring Aziraphale back, I’ll do it.” 

God hummed thoughtfully. 

### 

“Of course I mean it," Aziraphale said, his voice quiet. "I… there's nothing I wouldn't do for Crowley." He paused. "Or, well. Nothing I wouldn't have done. I suppose… there isn't much I can do, any longer." 

"You miss him already." 

Aziraphale almost laughed. "It– it's rather odd. We used to go centuries without seeing each other, back in the beginning. It's only been in the past sixteen years, give or take, that we've seen each other every day. And yet… perhaps it's because… because I won't ever see him again." 

Aziraphale looked up at the Almighty, knowing that, for what might have been the first time in more than six thousand years, his prayer would definitely be heard. "Could you– I know it, it isn't really my place to a-ask favors of You, but… would it be possible for you to keep him safe? Only– he's, well, he's rather reckless, at times, a-and I would hate for him to be hurt. I know that– I know that you cast him out, Lord, but he– he's so good. So much better than I could ever hope to be. He's– he's clever, and funny, and so, so kind, though he'd be terribly upset with me for saying so. He's… well, to be entirely honest, Lord, I think he might be the best thing You've ever created, which is probably terribly blasphemous of me to say, but… Is there… is there anything you can do?" He stared down at his hands, not entirely willing to see what Her reaction was to all of that. 

She hummed softly above him. 

###

“I was very glad for what you two did, or tried to do, at least,” God said. “An endless War would have gotten very boring, very quickly.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s the only thing that would have sucked about the end of the world,” Crowley said. “It would have been _boring_. What do I have to do, to bring him back?” 

“I was getting to that,” God said. “Impatient.” 

“Don’t you fucking start,” Crowley said. 

“There’s only one thing I need you to do,” She said. “It won’t be easy.” 

“Don’t care,” Crowley said. “I’ll do it. What is it?” 

### 

“I need you to do something for Me,” God said. “One final task, I suppose. In order to keep Crowley safe.” 

“Anything, Lord,” Aziraphale said. “Anything at all.” 

### 

“Take care of him,” She said, Her voice gentle in a way it hadn’t been in millennia. “He’ll need you now more than ever.” 

###

Crowley staggered to the side, his head reeling, as the bookshop vanished around him. He was– he was back, back in Purgatory, and it hadn’t changed at all, it still stank of blood and terror and pain and in the middle of it all was– 

“Crowley?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were open, they were open and they were _bright_ , and his chest was rising and falling and his breathing was rattling and pained but he was _breathing_ , he was– 

He was _alive_. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley choked, and then he was staggering forwards, dropping to his knees beside the angel just as he pushed himself upright, and they collided in the middle, and Crowley wrapped himself around his angel, squeezed him close, and Aziraphale hugged him back just as tightly, muffling a sob in Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, and the angel was far too cold, and his breathing was uneven, and none of the wounds on his back or wings had been healed, but he was _alive_ , he was _alive, he was alive_. 

“You came back.” 

Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him. “Always. I will always come back to you, if there is any possible way for me to do so.” 

“Don’t you _ever_ do that again,” Crowley said, and he'd meant for the words to come out as a snarl but his voice broke on a sob halfway through instead. “Don’t you ever, ever, _ever_ do something like that again. Got it?” 

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale said, burying his face in Crowley's shirt, and Crowley could feel his tears through the fabric, and Crowley was crying, too, squeezing his eyes shut in a useless attempt to hold it back a little longer. “I won’t. I love you, darling. I'm sorry.” 

“Love you, too,” Crowley said, turning his head to press his nose into Aziraphale’s curls, to kiss the side of his neck, and he still smelled like blood and his skin was colder than he’d ever been before but under that was _Aziraphale_ , the scent of him, the taste, the brilliant, glowing light of him, shining through once more. “Love you so much, angel. Never gonna let you go.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, his hands fisting in Crowley's shirt. 

_Take care of him._

“Let’s go home,” Crowley said. “Think I’ve had enough of this place, yeah?” 

Aziraphale laughed, a fragile, breathy, damp little thing. It was the most beautiful sound Crowley had ever heard. “I couldn’t agree more, love.” 

Crowley raised one hand and snapped. They landed on their bed, in the flat above the bookshop, still tangled together. Aziraphale gasped, his body tensing with pain, and Crowley clutched him closer. 

"Don't leave," he said again, hating how fragile his voice sounded, how desperate. 

"I won't," Aziraphale promised again, tugging Crowley into a kiss, whispering against his lips. "I won't. I'm here, my love. I'm all right." 

Crowley just kissed him back, as gently as he could manage in his desperation. _Alive. Alive. He's alive. He's alive, he's here, he's safe. He's_ alive. 

After a long moment, Aziraphale drew back, letting out a quiet little giggle. “I, ah. I promised the Almighty that I would take care of you, so… I suppose you’re stuck with me, now.” 

_Take care of him._ “I, uh. Promised the same thing, actually. So… guess you’re stuck with me, too.” 

“You spoke with God?” Aziraphale asked, drawing back just far enough to stare at Crowley incredulously. Crowley took the chance to study every inch of Aziraphale’s face, every line and curve, the arch of his nose, the shape of his lips (they were purple, nearly blue, right now, with the cold and the blood loss, but they could fix that, Crowley could fix that, now that Aziraphale was _alive_ again), and the ever-shifting blue of his eyes. 

“I did,” Crowley said. Then he winced. “I... might've called Her a bitch.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, his jaw dropping. “Good Lord. I can't believe– or, well. No. I suppose I very much _can_ believe that you'd do that. My darling, if you get yourself smote out of existence, I shall never forgive you.” 

“You talked to Her, too, then?” Crowley asked. 

“I did,” said Aziraphale. “And… and to Death.” His eyes met Crowley’s, then. "If, ah. If he shows up to try and give you a message, please don't panic, I asked him to do so." 

Crowley blinked. "You… you asked Death. Literal _Death_. To bring me a message?" 

"I… I just wanted to… to let you know how much I love you. One last time," Aziraphale said, his voice quiet. 

_Oh, fuck, I love him so much._ Before he could stop himself, Crowley lurched forwards and kissed Aziraphale again, clumsy and desperate, knocking their teeth together in his haste, and Aziraphale kissed him back, just as hard, just as longing, and he still tasted like blood but Crowley didn’t care, _couldn’t_ care, because _he was alive_ , and nothing else in the entire bloody universe mattered beyond that. 

They kissed for what could have been hours, lost in it, in each other, until Aziraphale eventually pulled back, just an inch or two, panting into the space between them and pressing their foreheads together. 

“Love you,” Crowley said again, whispering it like a secret. Their secret. The truth that had carried them through so many, many years. 

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale said, kissing him once more, a short, gentle, chaste little thing, before tucking his chin over Crowley’s shoulder, pressing their chests together and holding Crowley close. 

Crowley followed suit, closing his eyes and soaking in the feel of his angel. He began rubbing a hand over Aziraphale’s back, and as he did so, broken skin knitted together, scar tissue faded away, and warmth radiated out, soaking into Aziraphale’s corporation once more. 

Aziraphale sighed in relief, slumping against Crowley, his body growing heavy. 

“Rest, angel,” Crowley breathed, tipping them both so that they were laying down, still tangled together, hugging one another as though by doing so they could merge into one. “I’ve got you. Get some rest.” 

“I love you ever so much, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. 

“Love you, too,” Crowley said. “Rest.” 

As Aziraphale hummed softly, tracing little shapes into the small of Crowley’s back, the demon clung to him still. Aziraphale was here. He was safe. He was _alive_. They were together again. 

The realisation washed over him, warm and solid and _hopeful_ in a way he hadn't felt in months. 

_We're gonna be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading. The next chapter’s gonna be out on the 29th


	8. sleep, love, sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “Exhaustion/sleep deprivation”. I was going to post this on the 29th, but then I realised that today’s prompt fit it better. It’s a little messy, I’m sorry! Warnings for descriptions of injuries and discussions of/flashbacks to various past events.

Madame Tracy let herself back into Mr. Aziraphale’s bookshop, closing the door carefully behind her. She couldn’t see Mr. Crowley in the front room, nor could she hear him anywhere downstairs, but she did her best not to worry. Chances were, he’d just moved his napping upstairs to the bedroom after she’d left. 

She probably ought to check on him, just in case. 

Tracy made her way up the stairs into the little flat above the bookshop and began to put the shopping away in the kitchen, humming as she did so. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust (nine months, oh, the poor dear!), but all of the appliances worked perfectly well, and so Tracy put away the milk and set about putting the kettle on. 

“Not sure how much we can do for ‘em, really,” Mr. Crowley’s voice said from down the hall. Tracy paused to listen, frowning slightly. When she’d left earlier, he hadn’t seemed in any sort of state to be talking to anyone. She crept closer, as quietly as she could– she didn’t want to interrupt whatever conversation he was having. “I… shit, m’sorry, angel. They might not…” 

“We can set what breaks haven’t begun to heal, I suppose. Once the feathers have begun to grow back in, I’ll be able to set them properly. They’ll be just fine, my dear,” came another voice, and Tracy froze, her jaw dropping. 

That was _Mr. Aziraphale’s_ voice. 

She hurried down the hall to the bedroom. The door was halfway open, and there, sitting on the bed, wrapped up in Mr. Crowley’s arms and with what must have once been his wings sticking out of his back, was Mr. Aziraphale. _Alive._

Tracy dropped the kettle, and both Mr. Aziraphale and Mr. Crowley jumped nearly out of their skins, spinning around to face her. 

“Madame Tracy!” Mr. Aziraphale said, beaming at her. “Oh, hello. It– it’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?” 

“You’re– you’re _alive_ ,” Tracy said, staring at him. He was skinnier than he had been nine months ago, and his eyes looked haggard and exhausted, but he was definitely– he was there. 

“I am,” Mr. Aziraphale said. “I, ah. I suppose Crowley told you, then?” 

“I came to check on you two yesterday,” Tracy said, still reeling. “You’d been gone for nine months.” 

Mr. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he pressed a hand to his mouth. “Oh! We’ve missed Pepper’s birthday!” 

Mr. Crowley snorted. “‘Course that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“How did you manage to get back, then?” Tracy asked, bending down to pick up the kettle and doing her best to take it in stride. If she could accept angels and demons and having had a hand, however small, in averting the Apocalypse, she supposed that resurrection wasn’t too far of a stretch, either. And she was terribly glad that Mr. Aziraphale was alright. They’d gotten to be quite close– she supposed that sharing a body would do that. 

Mr. Aziraphale glanced at Mr. Crowley. “It, ah. It’s rather a long story.” 

“He told Death off, and then impressed God enough that She sent him back down,” Mr. Crowley said, sounding terribly proud. 

Mr. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly how it happened. I rather think that if either of us impressed Her, it was you.” 

“Come off it,” Mr. Crowley said. 

“I suppose you two will be wanting your space, then,” Tracy said. “I do hope I’ll see you again soon, dearies.” 

She turned to leave, but before she could, Mr. Crowley spoke. 

“Hey, uh. Human. Thanks. I guess. For… yeah.” 

She glanced over her shoulder, smiling gently. “I’m glad that it all worked out in the end. I’ll go tell everyone in Tadfield that you’re both all right, shall I?” 

“Yeah,” Mr. Crowley said again. 

“We’ll be by to visit soon, I’m sure,” Mr. Aziraphale said. 

“Oi. Don’t make promises like that. You can’t do miracles until your wings are better,” Mr. Crowley said. 

“We’ve already missed one birthday, love, I would hate to miss more,” Mr. Aziraphale said. 

Tracy left them to it, dropping off the kettle in the kitchen before making her way downstairs. The next bus to Oxford would be leaving relatively soon, though Tracy had a funny feeling that she wouldn’t have trouble catching it. 

She was quite glad that they were all right, the poor dears. And she was sure that the children would love whatever story they had to tell when they came by again. 

### 

Aziraphale and Crowley stayed in bed, neither willing to let go of the other just yet, for another day after Tracy left. Crowley did what he could for Aziraphale’s wings, bandaging and splinting them (mostly by miracle), but Aziraphale knew that they’d likely never be quite the same again. And there was nothing to be done for his stomach, either– the stab wound was gone, it was the only thing She had healed, but there was a scar left behind where it had been, the scar tissue threaded through with black. A reminder, he supposed. 

“You should sleep some more,” Crowley said eventually, after Aziraphale had put his wings away. They were lying down once more, Crowley curled up behind Aziraphale, one of his arms around the angel’s stomach and the other tracing slowly up and down his bicep. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I– I don’t think I can.” 

“You need to rest,” Crowley said. “I’ve got you.” 

“I know, love, but…” Aziraphale pulled away just far enough to turn around and see Crowley properly. “Do you think… do you think that _they_ know?” 

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Shit. I– I mean, probably not, yeah? We… probably wouldn’t still be here, if they did.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “If, ah. If they do find out... this will be the first place they check.” 

Crowley stared at him for a long moment, eyes darting over his face, something harried and tired in that golden gaze, before he sat up and conjured up his barely-used laptop from downstairs. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sitting up as well. 

Crowley held out one arm, inviting Aziraphale to lean against him, pulling up a series of Web sites on the computer. “Let’s go on holiday, then. Find a house, somewhere _they_ don’t know about. We can bring some books and the Bentley and just… go somewhere they haven’t been. Somewhere safe.” 

Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a long, long moment, feeling as though his chest could burst. “You– really?” 

“‘Course,” Crowley said, looking up at Aziraphale. “I mean– if you want to? We can stay here, if you don’t wanna leave the bookshop–” 

“No, I– that sounds lovely, dearest,” Aziraphale said, tucking himself into Crowley’s side once more. Crowley kissed the top of his head almost absent-mindedly, and they began to search. 

### 

Less than two days later, they moved into a quaint little cottage in the South Downs, bringing along the Bentley, thirteen houseplants, fifty-seven books, and whatever wine Crowley hadn’t managed to drink the week before. Crowley kept one eye on Aziraphale the whole way down, but with his wings away, he seemed… fine. His smile was tired in a way Crowley hadn’t seen since the Plagues in Egypt, and he winced every time he moved his shoulders too quickly, but he was… he was alive, and he was moving about, talking and laughing and… almost, _almost_ normal. 

It felt too good to be true. Crowley was absolutely terrified to let Aziraphale out of his sight, half-convinced that the moment he did, he’d vanish again, and this time there’d be no hope of getting him back. Thus far, Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind his clinginess, but he was starting to get worried that he’d annoy the angel somehow, but he couldn’t just _stop_ , either, because what if– 

“Crowley?” 

Aziraphale’s voice cut through Crowley’s mounting panic, and he jumped slightly, his eyes snapping onto the angel. They were together in the cottage’s kitchen, and Aziraphale was eating the crepes Crowley had made for him (out of miracled ingredients, neither of them was ready to go to the shops yet, but Aziraphale was still so much thinner than he should’ve been, and it made Crowley’s chest ache). 

Crowley took a sip of his coffee and then smiled at his angel, as warmly as he could manage. “Sorry, was just… thinking. What were you saying?” 

Aziraphale’s frown just deepened. “Crowley, you…” He sighed, reaching out and taking Crowley’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and even after everything his hands were the same as they’d always been, soft and steady and warm. “It… it isn’t good for you to… please don’t try to hide how you feel in some attempt to spare my feelings, love. If you… if you truly don’t want to talk about it, I won’t– won’t try to convince you to do so, but… please, my dearest, if there’s anything I can do to help you… please tell me?” 

Ah, fuck it all, Crowley was about to start crying again. He was honestly sick of it, at this point. “I– yeah. Okay. If you’re sure.” 

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, ever so gently. “I’m absolutely certain.” 

“Fuck, I missed you,” Crowley breathed, standing up and tugging Aziraphale into yet another hug. “Love you _so much_ , angel.” 

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale breathed. “A-and… and, I’m sorry, for–” 

“Nope,” Crowley said. “No. You don’t need to be sorry. Nothing to be sorry for.” 

“I left you–” 

“You died in order to save me,” Crowley said. “I could never be mad at you for that, angel. I do try not to be a hypocrite.” 

Aziraphale pulled back, just far enough to look Crowley in the eye again. “A hypocrite?” 

Crowley shrugged. “If it’d been the other way ‘round, no way out of it, either me or you… I’d’ve done the same thing." 

Aziraphale froze, his eyes darting over Crowley's face. "You– _what_?" 

Oh, Crowley could've killed the fucking Archangels. Even after all this time… "Of _course_ I would, angel. You– fuck. You're everything." 

"Please don't," Aziraphale breathed, clutching at Crowley's arms. "Oh, love…" 

"Not like I'll go out of my way to make it happen,” Crowley said, kissing Aziraphale's forehead and pulling him into another hug. "Point is, it's not your fault. It's _theirs_. I'm not mad at you about it. Never was. Couldn’t have been if I’d tried. If any of them do decide to show their faces here again, though, I can't promise they’ll live to tell the tale." 

"Do you know, I think I might actually help you with that,” Aziraphale said, his voice slightly muffled by Crowley's shoulder. "Crowley… I love you, darling. So very much." 

"Love you, too," Crowley said, swaying them both slightly back and forth. "I’m okay. Promise." 

"And you'll tell me if you aren't?" Aziraphale asked, pulling back again, his eyes wide and nearly pleading. 

Shit, Crowley loved him so much. "Yeah. I will." 

Aziraphale tugged on Crowley's shirt, pulling him down into a kiss, and Crowley went, cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hands and holding him close. They stood there for a long, wonderful moment, lost in one another, until Crowley pulled back, pressed one last kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, and then nudged him towards the table. “C’mon, angel. You’ve got crêpes to eat.” 

### 

_There was nothing but pain. Pain in his wings and his back and his shoulders and a white-hot throbbing, a furious burning, radiating from his stomach, pain and a pair of golden-yellow eyes, glittering with tears–_ Crowley’s _eyes, Aziraphale realised, and he tried to reach out, to find Crowley, but something stopped him, trapped him in place, the chains tugging his arms up above his head, and Crowley was kneeling in front of him, and Sandalphon was standing over him, that horrible grin on his face and a vial of water in his hand and as Aziraphale began to scream it tipped and began to pour and–_

“Angel! Aziraphale, wake up, love, _please_ –” 

Aziraphale sat up with a gasp, blind, endless panic flaring in his chest, and then something touched his shoulder and he gasped, scrambling back, his back slamming into something hard and a jolt of pain shot down his spine and through his _wings_ and– 

“Hey, hey, hey, angel, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just me.” 

Crowley. That was Crowley. That was Crowley’s voice. 

Aziraphale blinked quickly, his eyes slowly focusing again, his breath still coming in desperate pants.  
There, kneeling in front of him on the bed, dressed in just his pyjama bottoms, was Crowley, alive and safe and out of that absolutely miserable place. 

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale gasped, lurching forwards and wrapping his arms around his husband, burying his face in Crowley’s bare chest, feeling tears well up before he could stop them. “Oh, my love…” 

“I’ve got you,” Crowley promised, squeezing Aziraphale close, one hand smoothing up and down his back as he pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s curls. “You’re okay, angel. You’re safe. Promise.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, his voice catching on a sob. 

Crowley just shifted slightly, leaning back against the headrest and pulling Aziraphale into his lap. Aziraphale curled into him, the pain of his still-healing wings and the memory of everything else and the blind, animal terror of the dream pouring out of him with the tears. Crowley held him close the whole time, murmuring soothing nonsense, rocking them gently back and forth and rubbing circles into Aziraphale’s back as the angel cried himself dry. 

Eventually, the sobs tapered off, and Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath, pulling one arm free to wipe at his eyes. “I’m sorry, love. I– I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

“Not at all,” Crowley said, kissing the top of Aziraphale’s head again. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Wanna talk about it?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, pressing closer, his hand moving to skim slowly up Crowley’s back. 

Crowley sighed. “It’s been three weeks, and you haven’t slept through the night once.” 

“I’m an angel, I don’t need to sleep,” Aziraphale said. 

“While your wings are in the state they’re in? Yeah, you do,” Crowley said. “M’worried about you, angel.” 

“Oh, my love, don’t be,” Aziraphale said. “I’m quite–” 

He paused. His hand had brushed over something, a raised line running across Crowley’s back. He ran his fingers along it, then moved slowly upwards, finding half a dozen more like it. 

“Crowley, what–?” Aziraphale began, pulling himself out of Crowley’s arms and pushing him to turn around. A series of jagged scars crisscrossed across his back, and Aziraphale winced, the memory of each one being made flashing across his mind as he looked at them. “Love, why didn’t you heal these?” 

“Didn’t… didn’t see the point,” Crowley said, shrugging and looking at Aziraphale over his shoulder. “‘Sides, it felt like… I dunno. Felt like I should have some reminder of it. Since you’d… just felt wrong to heal them.” 

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale breathed. “I didn’t want you to– to martyr yourself for me.” 

Crowley just raised one eyebrow, staring at him. 

Aziraphale flushed slightly. “Oh, you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, I do,” Crowley said, turning back around and holding his arms out once more. “C’mere, angel. I’m okay. Promise.” 

“The more you say that, the less I believe it,” Aziraphale muttered, curling into Crowley’s chest once more. “Are you planning to heal them?” 

Crowley was silent for far too long. 

Aziraphale sat up, his stomach dropping. “Crowley…” 

“I hadn’t decided,” Crowley said, looking determinedly at everything but Aziraphale. “Honestly, angel, it’s not a big deal–” 

“Will you at least let _me_ heal them, if you won’t?” Aziraphale asked. “Once I can do miracles again, I mean.” 

Crowley sighed. “Aziraphale…” 

“Crowley, _please_ –” 

“You’re the one who _died_ , angel,” Crowley said, his voice quiet. “You’re the one– you don’t need to take care of me.” 

“Don’t do that,” Aziraphale said. “Please, love, don’t– I– they tortured you just as much as they did me. I– _please_ , darling, let me help you. If there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, no matter what–” 

“Why won’t you tell me what your nightmares are about?” Crowley asked suddenly. 

Aziraphale froze. “Dear…” 

“You’re not sleeping. You don’t eat nearly as much as you used to. You’re not letting me help you, either.” 

“You’ve suffered enough–” 

“What, and you haven’t? Aziraphale, why won’t you _talk_ to me?” 

“I keep dreaming that we’re back,” Aziraphale said, pushing himself properly upright. “That– that they’ve captured us again, and– and this time, they _know_ , and– and Sandalphon is standing over you, and he has holy water, a-and I’m trapped, there isn’t anything I can _do_ –” 

Crowley’s arms were around him, then, tugging him into another hug, and Aziraphale choked on a sob, pulling Crowley close. 

“It’s okay,” Crowley breathed. “I’m here. We’re okay, love. We’re…” He sighed, cupping Aziraphale’s face in one hand and pressing their foreheads together. “I… every time I turn around, I’m terrified you’ll be gone again. That– that I’m imagining all of this, that you’re... Turns out, I... I don’t know how to live without you, anymore. Don’t know what I’d do, if I… if you… I can’t lose you again, angel.” 

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured, something deep and aching settling in his chest. “I promise, I’m here. I’ll be here, for as long as I possibly can. I won’t leave again, not if you don’t want me to, not if there’s anything I can do to prevent it.” 

“If I don’t want you to,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “‘Course I don’t want you to leave. Never have. Never will.” 

“How very lucky for me, then,” Aziraphale said, a small smile flitting across his face. 

They sat there together for a long moment, just holding one another, being together, and eventually, the ache in Aziraphale’s chest began to fade. 

“Love you,” Crowley breathed, leaning forwards slightly to kiss Aziraphale, a soft, short, largely chaste little thing. 

“I love you, too, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “More than anything.” 

Crowley smiled at him, a soft, warm thing, and then shifted, laying back down and tugging Aziraphale on top of him. 

“Get some more sleep,” he said. “I, uh. If you want… I can make sure you don’t dream?” 

Aziraphale curled in closer to Crowley’s side. “I… yes. Please. I– thank you, darling.” 

“‘Course,” Crowley said, pressing a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. “Get some rest, angel.” 

Aziraphale sighed out, letting his eyes drift closed, and, for the first time that he could remember, he didn’t awake until morning. 

### 

Something moved out of the corner of Crowley’s eye. He looked up to see Aziraphale, rubbing his back against the backrest of his armchair and frowning mightily. 

It had been just over six weeks since they’d moved into the little cottage, and for about a day now, Aziraphale had been even fidgetier than he’d been for the six weeks before, rubbing has back against things and grimacing oddly. 

Aziraphale shifted again, and Crowley finally gave up, turning towards him properly and fixing the angel with his best stern-but-worried glare. “Alright. Out with it. What’s wrong?” 

Aziraphale sighed, scrunching his face up in a way that made Crowley very much want to kiss him. “My wings are terribly itchy. I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to bother you with it.” 

Crowley leaned forwards, hope flaring in his chest. “Is it your pin feathers, d’you think?” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale said. “It very well might be. Oh, dear, I’ve never liked tending to those on my own…” 

_Shouldn’t have had to,_ Crowley thought. Even demons would set aside their enmities during a moult. At this point, he really ought to stop being surprised by the things Heaven had done. “I could help, if you like.” 

Aziraphale looked up, his eyes wide. “I– oh, my dear, I don’t…” 

“Honestly, I’d like to,” Crowley said. “Haven’t done your wings in forever, feels like. It’ll be nice.” 

“Y-yes, I’m sure it will be,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands together. “O-only, it’s just… never mind. If you don’t mind…” 

Crowley frowned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing!” Aziraphale said. “Honestly, it’s– I’m being ridiculous. Don’t mind me. Where do you want me, love?” 

“Nope,” Crowley said. “Seriously, angel. What’s the matter? Has something happened?” 

“N-no,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just… well. I– I haven’t had my wings out since… a-and, and I just, I don’t think I particularly want to take them out, just yet. I’m sure they’ll keep for a little while longer, love, it isn’t urgent.” 

Crowley felt something heavy settling in his stomach. “Angel…” 

“I just– I’m sorry, love, I really am–” 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Crowley said, sitting up properly and leaning towards Aziraphale. “I get it. It’s just… you’re uncomfortable. And… I don’t really wanna leave your pin feathers for too long. Can’t be good for them, can it? If you’d rather, I don’t have to help, but…” 

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I– if you don’t mind, I think I’d like you to help. It’s always a terrible nuisance, trying to do it on my own. I– I’m sorry, like I said, I’m being ridiculous–” 

“You’re not,” Crowley said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Not at all. C’mon, angel, let’s go get you comfortable, yeah? It’ll probably take a while to get this all done.” 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling a small smile as he let Crowley tug him to his feet and towards the bedroom. “You’re far too good to me.” 

“No such thing,” Crowley said, nudging Aziraphale to sit on the bed and clambering up behind him. “Wings out, then?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. With a _whoosh_ and the faint smell of copper and ozone, his wings unfurled. His pin feathers were growing in, and just manifesting the wings was enough to begin to dislodge the covers on some of them. There were still a couple of bare patches, and his left ulna had a lump in it that hadn’t been there before, but… They were better. 

Crowley reached out, carefully touching the outer edge of Aziraphale’s right wing, and Aziraphale flinched, his wing jerking away. 

They both froze. 

“Here,” Crowley said, climbing back off the bed and moving around to stand in front of Aziraphale. “I’ll start on the inside, yeah? So… so you can see what I’m doing?” 

Aziraphale looked up at him, those beautiful blue eyes just a little bit damp. “Th-thank you, my love.” 

“‘Course,” Crowley said, reaching out again, much more slowly this time. 

“Could you, ah,” Aziraphale said. “C-could you… talk to me?” 

“What about?” Crowley asked, slowly rubbing away the waxy sheath on one primary. It crumbled, and the feather underneath unfurled slowly, the same pearlescent white that Aziraphale’s feathers had always been. 

“Anything,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley thought for a minute, humming softly, then said, “Did I ever tell you about this documentary I watched a couple year back about lions?” 

### 

Aziraphale set his book aside as Crowley wandered into the bedroom, smiling up at his husband. Crowley’s hair was still wet from his shower, and he was tugging a pyjama shirt over his head. 

Aziraphale tugged the covers back and held his arms out, and Crowley settled in against him, biting back a yawn. 

“You should get some rest,” Aziraphale said, combing his fingers through Crowley’s hair.  
Crowley shook his head, yawning again. “M’fine, angel. You need it more than I do.” 

“My wings are almost entirely better,” Aziraphale said, frowning slightly. “And you haven’t slept once since… since I got back.” 

“I will point out, you’re the one always saying we don’t need to sleep,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale just looked at him, his frown deepening. 

Crowley sighed. “I just… I was asleep. Last time. When they... and now…” 

“It’s been nearly two months,” Aziraphale said, his fingers resuming their trek through Crowley’s hair without any input from him. “We’ll be all right, love. If they haven’t worked it out yet…” 

“I know,” Crowley said. “M’just… scared, I guess.” 

“As am I,” Aziraphale said. “But… one night won’t hurt. And you need to rest, love. I’m worried about you.” 

“Always are,” Crowley muttered, though there wasn’t any heat to it. 

“Well, if you didn’t give me quite so much to worry about,” Aziraphale quipped, pressing a gentle kiss to the mark on Crowley’s temple. “I’ll keep an eye out for tonight, dear. Please, get some rest.” 

“Wake me up,” Crowley said. “Anything happens, wake me up.” 

“I will,” Aziraphale said. 

“Promise?” 

“I promise, dear.” 

Crowley nuzzled his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder, his arms wrapping tightly around the angel’s waist. “Love you. So much.” 

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale breathed. He took a deep breath. “Sleep, my darling, for as long as you need, and dream of whatever you like best.” 

There was a sharp twinge of pain from Aziraphale’s wings as he spoke, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, not as he watched Crowley’s face grow slack, the tension and fear that had been carved into it for months on end fading away as he settled more firmly against Aziraphale’s side, sleep overtaking him. 

Aziraphale watched him for a moment longer, the warm, steady glow of love in his chest like a stove-fire on a winter’s day. Then he reached back over, picked his book back up, and resumed where he’d left off. 

### 

Gabriel was just about to shut down his skyPad for the day and head out on a jog when the screen flashed with a notification for an over-budget miracle. 

He sighed, glaring at the screen. He’d almost gotten used to not having those, now that his most infuriating Earth agent was out of his hands for good, and he wasn’t thrilled to have to deal with one again so soon. He tapped on the notification, then frowned, examining it a little closer. 

_[account name deleted] Gave Blessing of Peaceful Sleep]_

That was odd. There shouldn’t have been any accounts with their names deleted. Had Uriel messed up one of the accounts? 

Gabriel pulled up the account number– 2574488, that should have been one of the Cherubim. What were they doing giving peaceful sleep? He could only think of one angel who would waste a miracle on something so useless. 

He froze. His corporation knew better than to grow leaden with dread, even as he typed the number into the system and waited for it to load. There was no way. Absolutely no way. He’d seen the body. He’d felt the raw unholy energy of Dagon’s dagger. There was absolutely no possible way– 

The information loaded, and Gabriel dropped his skyPad. 

_Account 2574488: Former Principality Aziraphale._

_Fuck._

Gabriel left the skyPad where it had landed on his desk and yanked his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, dialing as quickly as he could. 

The phone on the other end rang out nearly to voicemail, before being picked up at the last second. “What?” 

“Hey, Beez,” Gabriel said. 

“Don’t call me that,” Beelzebub snapped. 

Gabriel ignored zir. “Listen. We’ve got a situation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! The last proper chapter will be up on Halloween, and then I’ll post a little epilogue the day after.

**Author's Note:**

> Any other, unconnected whumptober prompts will be posted in this series. Thank you all so so much for reading!!!


End file.
